Shabbat Shalom

Lately, I have, rather surprisingly, taken to the informal practicing of the Sabbath. I say practice because it is not so serious as observation, but it is more deliberate than happenstance. I say practice because I am not so sure I am doing it right. But I really do love it.

Growing up, the observation of the Sabbath was rather harshly imposed on me. My father is a recovering byproduct of the Pilgrim Holiness tradition, and his version of the Sabbath never really resonated with me, his spirited, spiritual eldest. Even now I cannot pin down much of the doctrine or theology that members of the Holiness movement adhere to, but I can easily list the restrictions on behaviour.

For example:

• women should wear no jewelry
• women should wear only modest clothing which covers their arms at all times, and on Sundays is limited to dresses or skirts and long-sleeved sgirts
• all manner of recreation, consumerism, and work must be avoided on Sunday, the Sabbath day of the Lord, a day of rest for all mankind (sitting on the 4' x 6' veranda in the front of the house not included)

These are the rules that bothered me most. And these were the rules my father tried to enforce the hardest. Most of the rules didn't apply to my mother, a left-of centre Baptist-convert and daughter of a staunch atheist and a dedicated agnostic. Whenever I pointed out this fact, my father, to his credit, said, "She was a big, big woman when I met her. How was I going to tell her what to do?" I suspect that he did try to make these demands on her at first, but there isn't a hope in heaven that my mother would stop thinking for herself to please any man. Unfortunately for my Dad, I inherited this same trait.

Unfortunately for me, I was not a woman, I was a child. And he was bigger (only slightly), and stronger (I tested this to make sure it was true). And he could take away anything at will. A ride to church? Denied for three weeks because I came to the car dressed in pants one subarctic Sunday morning. The use of the family car? Off limits for three weeks over a simple dinner table misunderstanding.

So I grew, at quite a young age, to resent the forced Sunday dresses, the forced lack of oh-so-important earrings, the caged Sunday afternoons while the sun beat down on my languishing bicylce. Later, in my teens, I also grew tired of the looks of pity bestowed on me when I had to explain to my friends, yet again, that I could not go out for lunch with them after church on account of it being the Sabbath.

It seemed to me that the Sabbath was more work than it was worth. It was so restrictive. And every Sunday I had to talk myself out of committing patricide. Believe me, this was neither an easy, nor a particularly restful task. I reminded my father that Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. He reminded me that I had better start getting used to the backside of his hand or seeing only the inside of bedroom if I was going to keep challenging him.

But what I don't think he understood is that I still wanted a day of rest. I just wanted to rest my way. With my people. In the sun. Being active. Propelling myself through the streets of Toronto on my bike or my blades. Making snow forts. Getting the fuck out of that house.

I promised myself when I grew up that I was going to do whatever I wanted to on Sundays. I would go shopping just for the fun of it! For things I could have bought on Saturday! I would eat out every Sunday after church! With friends! With strangers even! By myself if I had to! I would walk 500 miles! And then I would blade 500 more! I would show the Sabbath who was boss!

And when I left my parents' home, I did! After church on Sundays, I did things that I enjoyed with people I enjoyed. I stayed home when I wanted to, I went out when I wanted to. And I wore pants, and earrings, and shorts (oh my)! I did all sorts of things that would usually be restful by my personal definition of rest. But I forgot to rest. I remembered to exist outside of restriction which was one of the more unrestful parts of my father's Sabbath. But I forgot to rest.

And now, with my life in utter grown-up turmoil, I have found myself, unknowingly and for the first time, really practicing the Sabbath. Not the Sabbath of my father by any means. But my own day of rest. On Friday night, or Saturday mostly. Happily cooking or reading. Stretching and breathing and walking. Sleeping and dancing and playing. Listening and sharing and talking. Laughing and hugging and feasting. Free of all restrictions except for one: rest.

And I have found God's motive for making Sabbath for man and not the other way around; the more I rest, the closer we are.

Shabbat Shalom. Peace out.